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Sunday, 1 February 2015

Why we choose to suffer

Memory is a fickle
thing. Like all things in the known universe, it inevitably falls
victim to entropy. As time passes, it becomes a disorganised mess of
fragmented images, imagined sounds, a censored version of reality.
Also, as any police investigator will tell you, it lies.
Memories are the result of a subjective creative process deeply
influenced by our personalities. They are susceptible to suggestion.
That is why two people can recall the same incident in two very
different ways.

How we remember pain is
a particularly fascinating subject. Even if we know on a cognitive
level that we have experienced pain, we cannot recollect it
physically. It is kind of a survival mechanism: just imagine
if we re-experienced pain every time we remembered it. We would be
overwhelmed by it, unable to lead a normal life.

The past is shaped by
what and how we remember. For example, if a race has made a good
overall impression, we might remember the scenery, the friendly
volunteers, the interesting runners we meet. We often either repress
or distance ourselves from the discomfort and the mental challenge.
So that what we are left with is a beautiful, perfect snow globe of a
memory, an idealised image of the real thing. But if that is how we
remember it – and we can never revisit the past to find out if it's
true-, is it less real than what actually happened?

And does it matter?

There are different
sorts of pain (emotional, physical, mental), degrees of pain (from
discomfort to agony) and even levels of pain tolerance. Runners of
any distance might experience pain. Disappointment that they didn't
win a medal or break a personal record. The beginning of a foot
injury. Pushing through the wall at a marathon or the blood taste in
their mouth during hard intervals. And so on.

Yet there is something
particularly grueling about an ultramarathon. Maybe because the
suffering is prolonged and gives ample opportunity to experience all
sorts of pain. The ultramarathon is a Herculean labour, an
extraordinary trial in which the athlete (from the Greek ”ἄθλος”
meaning labour, task) must perform a seemingly impossible feat in
order to succeed.

By choosing to run an
ultra, we choose to willingly marinate in pain. We feel the tiny
stones that have found their way into our shoes, gaiters be damned,
and the blood blisters that are starting to swell under our big toes
because of them. We feel the niggle in our knees and the anxiety that
it can develop into an injury. We feel our stomachs revolting against
the latest energy gel we've thrown down our throats. We feel eternity
weigh upon us as day turns into night and the hours of our voluntary
torment stretch forever towards an unknown finish line. In short:
pain makes us feel. We are alive. Pain makes us focus, turn
inwards and explore, something that is sorely missing in our frantic
day-to-day lives.

Why do we keep putting
ourselves through such harrowing situations? After all, the human
instinct is to avoid pain. Pain means threat, danger. That's why we learn not to touch a hot stove after only one or
two misguided displays of curiosity. Are ultrarunners just really
slow learners? Well, I'm sure some people might say that ultrarunners have
some kind of screw loose, but slow learners they are not.

As is often the case in
life, it is a question of effort versus reward. Ultra running takes a
lot of effort but the reward is worth it. We invest enormous amounts
of energy in our sport. If we never got any energy back from it, we
would just stop doing it. But that is not what happens. What we do get
back are the healthiest, most nutrient-dense calories you can get, in
the form of breath-taking views from the top of mountains,
oxygen-rich air in thick forests, the beat of our hearts and feet on
a silent, empty road… and delving deep into the abyss of our own
souls to come eye to eye with our monsters, the ones that tell us we
can't do this. And we get to slay them. That. That is why we endure
the pain. We transcend ourselves, we go past our limits, we venture
further than we thought was possible. We triumph. Mind over matter.

And then, when the race
is over, we get to lie back and enjoy the memories we have created,
where pain once again becomes nothing more than a cognitive exercise, unable to yield its power over us. We know that we persevered. We know that
we conquered pain. We learn that there is an end to the pain, and
that all we have to do is wait it out. We get stronger, patient,
self-confident. We get an extra arrow in our quiver for when we have
to face other, involuntary trials in life. Because then we know that
this, too, shall pass.